


as if an artist's dreams

by coronaofastar



Series: we were staying in paris [2]
Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Chain of Thorns, for ONCE y'all can have some fluff from me. enjoy it while it lasts, for like five seconds so chill out!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronaofastar/pseuds/coronaofastar
Summary: Alastair was already an early riser, but somehow Thomas rose even earlier. It was a luxury, unparalleled luxury, to wake up to the light silk of pre-dawn sky outside the window and the Institute quiet, as though the building itself were asleep, and Thomas, smiling down at him. He had evidently been awake for some time, as he was sitting up, the sheets pooled around his waist. “Good morning,” he said brightly.Thomas and Alastair, 1904. Paris, again.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs & Cordelia Carstairs, Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: we were staying in paris [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730824
Comments: 22
Kudos: 81





	as if an artist's dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I did think to myself, _hm. should I keep this in reserve? for when CHOI destroys us?_
> 
> and then I posted it because I am but a little creature,, I cannot change this
> 
> would like everyone to pour one out for @sora_grey bc I keep telling 'em about wips?? and then posting _different_ wips?? sora i am so sorry shdgfjds. also special shoutout to maggie @liviadovehallow, as always :)

_We swam in Paris_

_as if jumping between the paintings_

_of an artists dreams_

_we were the watercolor strokes_

_across the cobbled canvas_

_bleeding into the stone._

_—_ ATTICUS

* * *

PARIS, PRESENT DAY, 1904

Alastair was already an early riser, but somehow Thomas rose even earlier. It was a luxury, unparalleled luxury, to wake up to the light silk of pre-dawn sky outside the window and the Institute quiet, as though the building itself were asleep, and Thomas, smiling down at him. He had evidently been awake for some time, as he was sitting up, the sheets pooled around his waist. “Good morning,” he said brightly.

“I don’t know how you keep waking before I do,” Alastair said. He stretched languidly and propped himself up on his elbows. Thomas leaned over and down, put an arm around Alastair’s waist, hand warm in the small of his back. He took Alastair’s chin in the other hand and pulled him close, kissed him softly, sweetly, surely.

Alastair’s eyelids fluttered shut. He thought of bright copper coins he'd seen at the bottom of a fountain when he was small—the shine of them, the warm glint. “Good morning,” he breathed, once they had broken the kiss.

Tufts of Thomas’s short hair stuck up at odd, sleep-mussed angles. His hazel eyes, bright with a sort of marveling satisfaction that made Alastair warm all over, reminded him of tiger’s eye stones. The view really was quite spectacular in Paris.

“That,” Thomas said. He was smiling as though he had thought of a particularly amusing joke.

“Pardon?”

“The view. It’s what I wake for.” Thomas’s eyes gleamed. The gentle caress of Alastair’s cheek made it clear he wasn’t talking about the streets outside their window. “It really is _extraordinarily beautiful._ ”

It so mirrored Alastair’s thoughts that he burst out laughing, pulling Thomas into another kiss to show that it wasn’t in mockery. He pushed himself up, bracing to feel the morning chill on his bare skin but finding only warmth. “What time is it?"

“Plenty early,” Thomas said. He pulled Alastair against his chest, both arms around his waist. Alastair felt him press a quick kiss to his hair before resting his chin on the top of his head. “What shall we do today?”

To Alastair’s surprise, he had to think about it. They’d seen much of Paris in the past week, striking location after location off their list. “I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think?”

“We could simply not get out of bed,” Thomas said thoughtfully.

He said it so solemnly and with such consideration Alastair wouldn’t have known Thomas was grinning if he hadn’t known _him._ As it was, he gently smacked Thomas’ arm. “Behave,” he chided, and Thomas muffled a laugh into his hair. “Not this morning, at least.”

“Oho!” Thomas said. The grin was evident in his voice. “Not _this_ morning.”

Alastair flushed, but he couldn’t help smiling. “As I was _saying,”_ he said, “not this morning. We promised to have breakfast with Gisèle, remember?”

Thomas hummed. Alastair could feel the vibration in his chest, not so unlike the purr of a cat. “At the moment I’m having trouble remembering why that was a good idea.”

“Gisèle’s been kind to us,” Alastair reminded him.

“Oh, I know,” said Thomas. “So has Christine, and I’m grateful to them both. But you can’t blame a man for wanting a little more time with his lover.”

_Lover._ The word warmed him thoroughly, like a sunbeam from on high. Alastair turned in his arms, put his hand on the side of Thomas’ face. “We have all the time in the world,” he murmured, and kissed him.

When they broke apart to breathe, Thomas’ eyes were shut. He touched his forehead to Alastair’s and murmured, _“Eshgham,”_ like a benediction. _My love._ Behind him, the first rays of the morning sun came through the window and outlined him in gold. 

Thomas cracked one eye open. “I suppose we should start making ourselves presentable now,” he said ruefully.

“Just a few more minutes,” Alastair breathed, feeling dazzled by both Thomas and the sun, and was gratified when Thomas stayed.

* * *

Mornings were different, with Thomas.

It might have been the languid feeling of Paris, or it might have been because he was in love, but Alastair found himself stealing one minute after another where before he never dallied in the morning. Thomas also made it far too easy—all Alastair had to say was, “Come back to bed,” and Thomas would simply say, “Well, alright,” and swerve back into bed. He knew he was being indulged. He didn’t care.

It had turned out that Gisèle Bellegarde, the head of the Paris Institute instated after Charles’ temporary term, was of a similar disposition as Alastair and Thomas. Only a few carefully worded letters and they had each realized what was being written; it had been Gisèle who, in the same breath that she mentioned her lover Christine Montclair, extended an invitation for them to visit.

_My darling Christine and I would be happy to host you and Thomas here as long as you’d like. Please say you will visit—I fear even now Christine is planning to buy an exorbitant amount of cheeses in anticipation of your visit, and I, for my part, cannot deny her anything._

It had been an offer of kindness and generosity and understanding, and quite the daring move, at that. Gisèle was a daring lady. Alastair had very nearly turned her down.

He wouldn’t have even mentioned it to Thomas if not for Cordelia. At the time things in London had just begun to settle down, even as their little household had gotten livelier with the addition of Reza, the new baby. With their father gone, their mother recovering from a difficult birth, Cordelia married and Reza to look after, Alastair would not have thought of going at all. But he had kept Gisèle’s letter to read over. That had been his first mistake.

“Alastair!” Cordelia came into the study in a flurry of blue skirts and indignance that startled Alastair at his desk. She marched up to him and _loomed._ “When were you going to tell me you were leaving for Paris?”

“Paris?” Alastair repeated, bewildered. “What—” He caught sight of white paper in her hand. His voice pitched with incredulity. “Did you _read_ my correspondence?”

Cordelia managed to look unapologetic in a guilty sort of way that hadn’t changed since she was a girl. “It was folded and I didn’t know what it was,” she said, thrusting it out at him. She paused, and added, sounding a bit more guilty, “I’m sorry.”

Alastair wasn’t angry at all, but he did manifest a deeply annoyed sigh for the sake of appearances. He put the letter aside. “I didn’t tell you because I’m not _going,_ Cordelia.”

Cordelia blinked, taken aback. It did not last long. “Why not?”

“I’m the head of the family,” Alastair said, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. “I can’t very well just go off on a whim.”

“Oh?” Cordelia said, hands on her hips and chin tilted in challenge. “You’re the head of the family and not Mâmân?”

_“Acting_ head of the family, then.”

“Remind me who Cortana chose?”

“I’m the eldest,” Alastair said patiently. “A famed sword does not mean you can run a household, Layla. You can’t cut your way out of accounts. Besides, you’re married now. You have your own household to look after, and you cannot be here all the time.”

Cordelia was looking at him with a strange, indecipherable expression. “Alastair _joon_ ,” she said finally. “I would like to see you happy.”

“I am happy,” he said, startled.

Cordelia came around his desk. She sank down by his chair and took both his hands in hers. “I would like to see you choose something for yourself for once.”

Alastair knew he was breathing. He didn’t feel it.

“I would not be looking after the household alone,” Cordelia said gently. “I have Mâmân and Risa. I have Lucie and James. You spent so long taking care of—of the family.” She swallowed. “It doesn’t always have to be you, Arash. I can do it. Let me do it.”

“Layla,” Alastair said, and his voice came out as fragile as blown glass. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Cordelia let go of him, only to reach over and lay the letter on his knee. “Go to Paris, Alastair,” she said. “Write to Madame Bellegarde and say that you will. Talk to Thomas, and if he does not want to go with you, tell him I said to reconsider. But he’ll say yes. You know he will.”

And as he and Thomas found their way hand in hand through the Institute for breakfast—late, but uncaring—Alastair reflected, ruefully, that Cordelia had been right. A terrible business for older brothers. But he supposed she could be right just this once.

_“Bon matin,”_ Gisèle said cheerfully. Her keen dark eyes were narrowed in knowing amusement as he and Thomas entered. For privacy, she had set up in one of the sitting rooms rather than the dining room, and now presided over a table laid with pastries, butter and jam, and coffee. To her right sat Christine, a fat, pretty woman with her hand laid over Gisèle’s on the table. “You see, Christine, that your worries about our guests being eaten by the beds have proven unfounded.”

“Does that occur often?” Thomas asked innocently.

Christine’s eyes twinkled. “Only when they are very distracted,” she said. “Do sit, gentlemen! It is rare that we are in such fine company.”

It was a merry affair. Their hostesses were charming and good conversation companions, and warm croissants with fresh French butter were a luxury Alastair knew he would miss back in London. 

He said as much. Gisèle’s eyes gleamed over the rim of her cup. “Really?” she mused.

“You’ve done it now,” Christine said wryly. “You cannot compliment this woman and tell her what you are partial to in the same breath. She will send you home with suitcases full of butter.”

“France does turn out lovely butter, and even lovelier women,” said Gisèle. She lifted Christine’s hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, smiled. “And since I have my lady, you may have the butter.”

Christine beamed. She leaned in to kiss Gisèle’s temple, a gesture so unselfconscious and natural that it made something in Alastair’s chest warm. Perhaps that was the greatest luxury, strange, unparalleled luxury, he thought, to be able to do so openly among company.

Thomas said, leaning back in his chair, “We’ve exhausted most tourist locations in the city. I was wondering if either of you would recommend some of your favorite sights?”

“Have you seen _Place de la Concorde_?” Christine asked brightly. “Very charming. King Louis XVI was beheaded there.”

“Christine,” said Gisèle.

“They have lovely fountains.” 

_“Christine._ Personally,” Gisèle said to them, “I am partial to the idea of, hm, rambles. If you have no particular destination, why not simply roam the city? Paris is a mistress with plenty of secrets, and she will tell you some of them if you have a little patience.” She took another sip of coffee and added, eyes dancing with mischief, “And the company, I think, is what makes it worthwhile.”

Thomas and Alastair looked at each other. “Would you care to come with me on a ramble?” Thomas ventured.

Christine made a sound of disbelief, though it wasn’t unkind. “Englishmen!” she said. _“Mon Ange,_ the formality. You can do better by our lady Paris, surely.”

Thomas looked from her to Alastair, and seemed to decide something. A gleam came into his eye. “Alright,” he said, and, turning fully to Alastair, he took his hand, leaned towards him as though drawn, as though they were the only two people in the room, in the city, and said, softly, earnestly, “Come with me.”

Alastair found he no longer had grounds to tease Thomas for giving into him far too easily. In that moment, he thought he would have agreed to go anywhere in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> writing notes, lesgo!  
> 1) If you don't like Atticus, I,, get well soon ig dshfsj /j  
> 2) Reza's my name for baby Carstairs. if you've read "by threads," you might have noticed!  
> 3) Arash, an archer in Persian legend, is Alastair's family nickname the same way Layla is for Cordelia.  
> 4) on Gisèle and Christine i. simply thought it would be very funny if whoever took over from Charles was also queer. also mlm/wlw solidarity folks I am just Desperately unoriginal sdgfghsd
> 
> This series is complete! There might be another part someday because I continue to have Thoughts on James Baldwin's _Giovanni's Room_ , but that one wouldn't be thomastair. If anyone is inclined, I'd suggest going back to "stolen dance" and reading it in comparison with this one for the Parallels :))


End file.
